


Personal

by clarence_sage



Category: James Bond (Craig movies), London Spy
Genre: Danny Holt is Q (James Bond), Drugs, Gen, Light Angst, M/M, Possibly Pre-Slash, Q Backstory, a bit purple but like who's keeping score ammirite, as ripped from London Spy because AU he is Danny, but it's a valuable asset, you don't really /need/ to know London Spy
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-09-24
Updated: 2019-09-24
Packaged: 2020-10-27 04:55:21
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,366
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20754680
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/clarence_sage/pseuds/clarence_sage
Summary: His accent has changed. It’s coarser, more working-class. James would never have expected that Q was faking that posh accent of his; it fit his personality so well. But then, did James even know what Q’s personality was? He never would have pegged Q the type to be emerging from a club at 3 in the morning, sweaty and high, cigarette between his lips and oddly modern, oddly stylish cheap clothes on just a bit too tight– but who would?Or, the one where, a few years after Alex Turner’s death, Daniel Holt has reinvented himself as Q, but every now and again he relapses to what he used to be. And it’s not always a good thing. And James Bond is confused and isn't good at Human-ing™.





	Personal

**Author's Note:**

> I didn't mean to make it gay but it came out a little gay and honestly I'm not sure how to deal with that cause it's not really /gay/, y'know? like it might be pre-slash? but I didn't even mean to do that???
> 
> LIKE IT'S NOT EVEN GOOD BUT WHAT THE HECK DID I DO?
> 
> Y'ALL DON'T KNOW WHY THIS IS A BIG DEAL BUT THE PROBLEM IS,,,, I'M NOT EVEN /IN THIS FANDOM/, BOYS. LIKE,,, CONFUSION??? AT MYSELF? 
> 
> anyway have fun.

His accent has changed. It’s coarser, more working-class as he mutters a goodbye to another young man in a similar state that walks away after delivering to Q a rather racy kiss farewell, or perhaps in thanks. Bond would never have expected that Q was faking that posh accent of his; it fit his personality so well. But then, did Bond even know what Q’s personality was? He never would have pegged Q the type to be emerging from a club at 3 in the morning, sweaty and high, cigarette between his lips and oddly modern, oddly stylish cheap clothes on just a bit too tight– but who would?

Bond considers slipping away into the shadows unseen, secretly knowing that there’s more to the Quartermaster than meets the eye. But for once in his life he chooses the right thing and reveals himself, striding towards the man and stopping beside him with an acknowledging “Q”. 

Q startles, but surprisingly minutely. While Bond could tell as soon as he saw Q that the young man was probably under the influence of a substance or two, it was evident now that he was closer, that his assumption had been correct. Bond didn’t know what Q was on, but his pupils were blown and his skin, neck and collarbone glistened with a primally appealing sheen of sweat in the slightly yellow-tinted street light, so prominent as the moon and stars hidden by clouds. 

When Q answered in a surprisingly put-together manner, “007,” (though still in that alternative accent that seemed to clash so harshly with what Bond thought he had known about the man) it was clear by how well he was conducting himself that he was used to having whatever he’d idiotically taken humming through his veins. He was too practiced at acting as if he was fine. 

Bond wondered if this was going to become a problem — the drugs — or if perhaps it already was. Then again, he had never seen any signs in the workplace. But just because a person wasn’t so hopelessly addicted that they needed to stay high all hours of the day didn’t mean that there wasn’t a problem. Bond frowned. 

The end of Q’s cigarette glows orange as he inhales, and he pulls it down from his mouth, arm resting in his side in what seems to have been a subconscious move. When he exhales the smoke, it curls and contrasts starkly with the clear and cold witching hour air. Smoke always looks thicker, more defined, when it is cold and the light shines down on it. 

“Must be going,” Q mumbles and turns away from Bond. The agent notices that he’s schooled his accent back into that familiar posh shape. 

When Q walks, his movements are distinct. Too distinct, almost accentuated, as if he’s trying to walk normally. That is to say, as if he’s fighting a force which would have him walk  _ abnormally _ , and it occurs suddenly to Bond that it’s quite likely the younger man has a considerable amount of alcohol in his system, paired with some kind of — either illegal or regulated and therefor illegal without prescription — stimulant. 

Bond considers letting him walk away, but for the second time tonight, (this morning?) he does the right thing, and speed-walks toward Q, catching up. 

“What do you want?” The Quartermaster asks haughtily. 

“I’m accompanying you home. I can’t allow our Quartermaster to get hurt, can I?” Bond responds, adding a bit of a teasing lilt to his words to hide the fact that he’s just terrified himself with the fact that it’s  _ Q, the man _ he wants safe, not  _ Q, the title _ . 

Q must notice, then, that Bond isn’t going to give in. So, surprising the agent for the umpteenth time this morning, he relents as quickly as that. 

The house they end up outside is a good choice, Bond notes. It’s not far from other houses, but the hedges and the long driveway make it seem very private, and the house itself looks of a good size, and modern, though not obnoxiously. 

Bond is also ready to leave Q on the doorstep, satisfied that the younger man is safe, when Q speaks again. “Would you like to come in?” He gestures to the house he’s about to enter. 

Bond freezes, not sure what to do next, and seriously considers bolting and acting like he was never there, when Q lets out a frustrated sigh. “For God’s sake, 007,” he says, his other accent slipping in, words slightly clumsy. “I wasn’t propositioning you.”

Oh.  _ Oh.  _ Well that’s a relief. Bond can breathe again. There’s an awkward silence. 

“I just thought,” Q says, and more of that previous, coarser accent drips into his words slightly, colouring them. “That you’d come in for, I dunno, a chat? A drink? Some... leftover spaghetti and Dolmio?” 

And Bond laughs. That’s so human of Q. Of course, Bond has learned tonight (this morning?) that contrary to how he presents himself at work, Q is incredibly human. Faults and all. In fact, especially fault. Lots of faults. 

Q blinks as if to clear his vision or his mind. He looks as if he’s been lost in thought, perhaps forgotten that Bond was there. “Are you- are you? Coming in? Or-”

“Ah, yes,” Bond replies quickly, and he curses himself silently for letting a spatter of anxiety tickle his words. He was a field agent, a Double-0, and yet somehow, he betrayed his nervousness to his Quartermaster. 

There’s a bit of key fumbling along the way, but all too soon they’re both standing in Q’s house, and suddenly Bond is surprised that he feels a great sense of awkwardness in his Quartermaster’s home. Their relationship was barred by their status as, hmm, perhaps not colleagues, nor worker and superior, not quite, but something of that fashion. Professional, though playful. 

Now, though, this was personal. Being in Q’s house was personal, almost intimate. Bond wonders if maybe he shouldn’t have accepted. His own sudden and unexpected sense of awkwardness seems to tell him that this being a personal matter, as it is, his training nor skills as an agent have no place here. 

He stands there in silence for a bit, and follows Q around like a lost puppy as the younger man moves into his living room. He’s not sure what to do with himself. He’s still confused from his revelations about the nature of Q earlier today/night. When Q sits down on the couch in the spacious sitting room, Bond hesitantly takes it as an invitation to do the same, taking a seat in a chair across from Q. Though while he’s sitting down, he leaves plenty of time for Q to see him and tell him not to if that’s what he wants. 

Q doesn’t object, so Bond sits down across from him. Despite it just being his Quartermaster’s house, he’s on high-alert mode, and he doesn’t seem to be calming down. Streetlight coming in from the window illuminates Q’s eyes and the pupils, returning to their normal state, remind Bond of just what kind of situation he’s in. 

Because why the bloody hell did he find his Quartermaster buzzed and high on the streets of London at 3 AM? “What were you doing in the club?” 

There’s a pause. “Enjoying my time off,” Q says. 

“No,” Bond responds. 

“No,” Q agrees. “But old habits die hard.”

“Drug habits?” Bond asks, direct.

“Club habits,” Q answers. “I  _ did  _ drugs, yeah. But it wasn’t… it never got to be a habit.”

“Are you sure?” Bond asks, and when he doesn’t get a prompt response, he continues, “What did you take tonight?” 

“That’s not important,” Q says, and Bond can tell he’s trying to assert authority in defence, because the evidently-fake posh accent is back again in full. Bond suspects that Q isn’t consciously aware that he’s switching between them. “I hadn’t taken anything in months.”

“And because it’s just a relapse that means it’s okay,” Bond says, sarcasm bleeding into his tone. 

“I never had a drug habit!” Q bursts, flinging his fists up and slamming them down on his thighs. He seems like a tantruming toddler, or he would if his voice wasn’t so steady and leader-like. “I had a club habit.”

Bond wants to ask,  _ what’s the difference,  _ but instead he asks, “What’s a club habit, then?”

“I did a lot of stupid things when I was younger,” Q starts. 

Bond interrupts. “Young _ er _ ? So, five or six?”

When Q tenses, he knows he’d picked the wrong time to start teasing. But the Quartermaster continues speaking anyway. “I would go out. Usually I’d take something. Not always. Sometimes just alcohol, cigarettes. Well, I suppose that’s ethanol and nicotine, but… that’s not the point. I’d have sex. Didn’t matter who they were, or where it was, or what was going on. And then… well, I shouldn’t say any more, should I? You probably don’t want to hear this.”

“So, by ‘club habit’, you mean sex addiction and, once again,  _ drug habit _ .”

Q lets out a huff of annoyance, and Bond cringes. “I’m sorry,” the Double-0 says. “I’m not good at… people.”

“You seem pretty ‘good at people’ when you’re in the field,” Q bites back in annoyance. 

“That’s different,” Bond points out. 

“How?” Q asks, as if he can’t possibly hope to understand the difference. 

“It’s real,” Bond answers before he can catch himself. “I’m not playing you, or cheating you, I’m having a real conversation with you. So excuse me if I don’t know how, because it’s definitely not like I haven’t done this in several years or anything.”

“Oh.”

There’s a few moments of quiet. 

“I do want to listen,” Bond says, tone carefully quieter this time, not wanting to set Q off or upset him. 

“What do you think I was? Before MI6?” Q asks. 

“I don’t know,” Bond replies. “An orphan? A cybercriminal of sorts?” 

“Would you believe I was Mr Ordinary?” Q asks, and the working-class accent is back, completely overtaking his voice. Bond can tell that this time it’s deliberate. 

“So what were you, before MI6. As ‘Mr Ordinary’?” Bond asks. 

“A warehouse worker,” Q answers. 

“No,” Bond responds.

Q nods, though. 

“But you were hacking as a pastime,” Bond says, so confident. 

“No,” Q denies. “I really was just normal.”

“But how did you… get here?” Bond asks. “ _ Why  _ did you get here?”

“Same reason I stopped the club habit,” Q says. “I fell in love.”

Bond snorts. But then he realises that Q isn’t laughing. He’s not even smiling, he’s grimacing in grief. And Bond remembers, suddenly, that he’s not the only human being ever to feel pain. Pain doesn't belong to him just because he knows it. Somehow he gets the feeling that this story doesn’t have a happy ending. 

“Who was she?” Bond asks. 

“He was an MI6 codebreaker,” Q answers, not minding Bond’s getting the pronoun wrong. 

“What… uh, what-” Bond starts to ask, but he’s not sure exactly how to put this. 

“What happened?” Q finishes for Bond. “MI5 thugs took him out because he was too good for this world.”

“I don’t understand.”

“He was so good. He was sweet, and though he was a genius, there was something just so innocent about him. He was just so good, all the way down. And he told me he worked for an investment bank. Looking back on it now, I can tell that it was killing him every day to lie to me. So he invented software that would put an end to dishonesty. I’m sure you can see where this is going.”

Bond nods mutely. He can certainly see where this is going. 

“They made it look like a kinky accident. The framed it like he was some kind of sadomasochistic deviant, some kind of Christian-Grey-but-a-switch, fucked up crazy rich guy who slept around behind my back and lied to me about everything. They shamed him after he was dead like they didn’t care, like nobody should-- someone like that. Goodness, purity like that, it should be valued, loved and praised and worshipped, not thrown away for a dirty cover-up story. It’s not fair. The truth to the world is that ugly lie, and they’ll never know how beautiful he really was,” Q ranted. 

“Danny,” Bond says suddenly, as soon as Q has stopped for a breath. 

Q startles. 

“Danny. You’re Danny. I  _ do  _ read the papers, you know. That was a few years ago. How did you get  _ here _ ?”

“I don’t know,” Danny answers. “I really don’t. One day everything was normal and then suddenly everything was all lies and espionage and coding. And I don’t know how I got here. Just, sometimes, when my fingers touch the keyboard and I know I’m about to do that thing I used to call hacking without really knowing what it meant, I wonder if maybe it’s Alex, and he’s guiding me, from wherever he is. And then I remember that that’s stupid, and I go out and act like I did before I met him.”

It’s quiet for a bit. Bond isn’t sure how to respond to that, and the implication that Danny has been thinking about Alex recently. He doesn’t know how to feel about it. He wants to sympathise but what he feels is more like he’s sorry for himself. 

Danny, or Q, it’s so bizarre. 

But for now, he leaves, and he doesn’t say goodbye. He leaves the air open with his silence, as if asking Q-Danny to tell him not to leave, or say goodbye. But the silence persists, and he leaves. 

And when he visits the Q-Branch at work the next morning, Q treats him like he had before all of this. Bond doesn’t know if the younger man is ashamed, or regrets his honesty that night, but Q has drawn a clear line in the sand, and Bond is going to respect it. 

So through Q’s fake accent, his witty quips and his youthful arrogance, Bond is left to wonder who ‘Q’ is, and why he let him sit in his living room that night. 

**Author's Note:**

> Small reminder PSA: I’m not even in the Bond fandom so I don’t fucking know why I did this
> 
> Thank you for your love and COMMENTS, PLEASE, BECAUSE I WANT TO KNOW HOW WELL I DID AT A FANDOM I KNOW NOTHING ABOUT


End file.
